


Confession

by birdcages7



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Blow Jobs, Come Eating, Come Swallowing, M/M, Public Blow Jobs, Public Sex, Religion, Religious Conflict, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:27:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24986791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/birdcages7/pseuds/birdcages7
Summary: I: Suit jackets embroidered with the school crest tossed to the floor, two pairs of black slacks bunched around ankles. Shoes still on. Billy’s hands held onto Harrington’s hips tight as he rolled and bounced, slender fingers trying to find purchase on the smooth wood of the walls that had absorbed a thousand confessions and would absorb a thousand more.II: Third period Wednesdays. Steve’s confession slot. Written so neatly. Much neater than anything else. Practically adored with love hearts and highlighted in pink. Probably that bitch’s work. Don’t forget. Be good.III: Billy had a confession still to give. Maybe two. One Harrington wasn’t aware about until the sound of the opposite door broke through their humid bubble. Harrington’s eyes flew open and he tried to move. Tried to save himself. Billy held firm.IV: Steve believed in the Devil. Only his Devil didn’t have black horns or ruby red skin, hoven feet or a pointed tail. His Devil had freckles dusted over his nose.V: Even though the chapel was always cold with the stone floor and endlessly high ceiling, Steve was sweating under his collar. Trying not to pay attention to the Devil on his left slowly bouncing his leg up and down.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 18
Kudos: 124





	1. I

The confession booth was Billy’s favourite place. It was quiet, hidden away at the back of the school chapel, almost lost amongst extinguished candles and a wall the same colour as the maple wood. Every student had to attend confession once a week, no one ever went last thing on a Friday. Not even the priest. Everyone too busy about getting home for the weekend. Being back with their families.

The inside of the booth got clammy quickly, especially with two people occupying one side. Two people were never meant to occupy one side, there was barely enough room, especially if you still left room for Jesus. But it was perfect, quiet except for bitten back moans and the slick slap of skin on skin, of Harrington riding Billy’s dick like a cheap whore before they both went home. Suit jackets embroidered with the school crest tossed to the floor, two pairs of black slacks bunched around ankles. Shoes still on. Billy’s hands held onto Harrington’s hips tight as he rolled and bounced, slender fingers trying to find purchase on the smooth wood of the walls that had absorbed a thousand confessions and would absorb a thousand more. The ends of Harrington’s shirt tickled his wrists but he wasn’t about to let go. Never did. 

They’d been doing this for months now. Hiding away in a sacred place, where no one would see. Harrington thought he was hiding. Hiding who he was, fitting in amongst all the other Jesus freaks that got sent here, but Billy knew. With one look he knew the truth. The same secret they shared. The same sin that would burn them. Then it became signs. Body language. Tense thighs when they were forced to sit next to each other, alphabetically, during mass. Neither paying attention to hymns anymore. Hands daring to brush past each others’ over prayer sheets. Silent agreements. Always the same time and place.

After Friday they would both return to their homes for the weekend. Harrington would go back to pretending to be the perfect son. All smiles and thank yous. That bitch on his arm that didn’t know she was just for show. Billy would go back to his room, fantasize about a halo of thick brunette hair either bouncing above or bobbing down between his tanned knees, golden cross around that pale neck catching the dying light like Harrington was still pure. Pretending the smell of incense and old bibles didn’t turn Billy on now. Like he didn’t blow out prayer candles just to feel a kick in his pants.

Harrington would dig his nails into the wooden walls, when he was close, never finding a proper grasp. Probably muttering hail marys under his breath to somehow save his soul from damnation. From Billy. From his wicked tongue and easy words and easier lips. Like there was still somehow hope. It was cute really. If Harrington didn’t want it so much. Billy would almost believe any penance the priest gave was worth something.

Sometimes during his own confession Billy would wonder what Steve said. Billy never told the truth. Never mentioned how many times he swore, or smoked, or masterbated thinking about boys this week. Steve probably did. Probably spilled his guts every week; about how he wanted to be good, make his family proud, make God prouder. His eyes were still innocent. Even when they screwed shut and then flew open as he came, head craned up to the sky, blasphemy staining his lips and the floor. Billy was always close behind, holding his leaner hips down. No escape. Muttering promises and sighs against a sweat soaked shirt. 

Steve always accepted his blessing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moodboard by the wonderful [catharrington](https://catharrington.tumblr.com/) over at Tumblr.
> 
> Songs to listen to: Church by Fall Out Boy and Coming Down by Halsey


	2. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Third period Wednesdays. Steve’s confession slot. Written so neatly. Much neater than anything else. Practically adored with love hearts and highlighted in pink. Probably that bitch’s work. Don’t forget. Be good.
> 
> Harrington was far from good.

Harrington’s fancy leather satchel was just lying there after gym, open. Begging to be looked through. Billy found his planner. Found his schedule. Learnt it quick. Put it back before anyone would suspect and accuse.

Third period Wednesdays. Steve’s confession slot. Written so neatly. Much neater than anything else. Practically adored with love hearts and highlighted in pink. Probably that bitch’s work. Don’t forget. Be good.

Harrington was far from good.

Billy excused himself from biology, took the hall pass with airs and graces and a butter wouldn’t melt smile, and made his way to the chapel. The doors creaked upon his arrival. An announcement. A warning. Letting the sinner in. The place was silent, thrumming with holiness and the powers from above fighting the powers below.

Sometimes Billy wanted to believe. He would wonder what it felt like to be good. He’d been baptised, confirmed, had his communion. Taken the blood and the body. It didn’t mean a thing. Just grape juice and a thin cracker. He wondered if Harrington believed it was real. Was he a cannibal because of it? Billy wasn’t good. Never had been. Never believed any of it was real.

His shoes echoed on the stone floor, made his way determined to the back, to the maple wood box. Harrington was already sat inside. Waiting. Fists balled onto his knees. He looked shocked to see Billy, but they both knew he wasn’t. Not with the way he kissed like he was dying, the same tongue that said daily prayer so sweetly rolling like fire. Not with the way he was already hard when Billy palmed him roughly. Not with the way he let Billy settle down between his knees, pull his cock free and start sucking.

Not with the way he hissed _five minutes_.

Billy smirked around him, pushed the swollen flesh into his cheek to use his wicked tongue that had never believed in the daily prayers that flowed over it. This would take more than five minutes.

Harrington grabbed and pulled at his hair as their time got shorter. Felt the panic rising. Couldn’t feel how much this got Billy hard in his slacks. The clammy air thick with sins. Incense burning outside. The door swinging open and the bench opposite sighing as the priest sat. True view obstructed by the wall between. By the crosshatch window at chest height that kept Billy hidden. Billy flicked his eyes up as Harrington hit the back of his throat, worked it against him like a threat. But this had been the plan all along. To hear Harrington’s sins coming straight from his pretty mouth. Watch his halo fall with damp sweat. Watch his eyes blown out black and full of worthless remorse. Begging for penance with every inch of his body. Begging to be good.

Billy was good at being silent. Good at being on his knees. He’d had years of practice. He could barely hear the priest over the sound of his heart ringing in his ears. Wondered if Harrington could hear his questions. His salvation. Or was that too far away to grasp now?

Harrington looked down the whole time. Face full of shame and pleasure. Heaven and hell. He couldn’t really stop this even if he actually wanted too. Mouth twisting around silent choked back moans that would sound like an angel’s song amongst his confessions if allowed to sing, hanging open between agreements to the other side. Poor boy didn’t even undo his tie. Probably felt like Judas being hung for his betrayal.

He twitched hard getting closer, muttering hail marys to appease the other side for having a cigarette after class and using the Lord's name in vain to his mother on the phone, nails digging into Billy’s scalp like thorns. Billy crossed his arms behind his back. Let it happen. This was his penance. His heaven was in this box. He accepted the Lord on the back of his tongue and swallowed everything offered. Worked everything from the flesh until it was soft. Until the priest left and he could let go with a devilish grin. Freeing his arms from himself to rub Harrington’s covered thighs. Look up at the boy with his head rolled back. Adam's apple bobbing hard with hard to catch breaths. Eyes screwed shut in shame. A stream of light catching his cross.

Billy was a believer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr page.](https://bird-in-a-cage.tumblr.com/)


	3. III

Harrington was on his knees, no doubt getting cold and cramped from the stone floor. Billy ran his hands through his halo, fixing it high and right after smoothing it flat, hands falling to cup the back of that slender neck. Thumb over the thin gold chain that sat under a stiff shirt collar. Felt his pulse hammering hard. Both had their ties loose to breathe. Originally. Now only one of them could. At least properly.

Harrington’s lips looked so pretty around Billy’s cock. Swollen and pink. Like it was meant to be. Much better full of something real than empty hymns. Slowly sliding back and forth. Slick and wet. Sending Billy spiralling down. Or dragging Harrington down to his level. Heavy like an anchor. Dark almond eyes shut to the world. Blind to anything other than the weight on his tongue, nudging the back of his throat. Filling his cheeks with something other than pointless words.

Billy could watch forever. He felt blessed to witness such a thing. He leant back against warm maple, knees as far apart as the box would allow. Usually he would have come by now, Harrington was good like that. His secret skill that no one else knew. Not even that bitch. Billy wasn’t the only one with a wicked tongue. Or was it the fact it was so sweet that made it so good? Billy had a confession still to give. Maybe two. One Harrington wasn’t aware about until the sound of the opposite door broke through their humid bubble. Harrington’s eyes flew open and he tried to move. Tried to save himself. Billy held firm. Kept him down at the level he knew he wanted to be inside. Past all this holy than thou bullshit. Past being good. Down where it was less than holy. Where it was _fun_. Billy cupped his flush cheeks, pale skin hot in his palms, and thumbed the corner of stretched lips softly. Being kind. A rare act. A miracle. Harrington eased immediately, staring up, eyes full of fear but no longer fighting to move. Like he was begging for something beyond the top of the box. Forgiveness maybe?

But Billy had him. This beautiful angel he’d caught falling through the clouds. Let them both fall together. Let them both burn. Harrington swallowed silently.

Billy had requested this extra confession. He’d been extra sinful this week afterall. Not that he was about to tell anything new. But he wanted to know how it felt to be torn between heaven and hell. If he was truthful and just believed, his soul could be saved right now. He could push Harrington away and beg. Beg for the strength to keep his angel away. If he confessed everything and believed, a higher power would forgive him. But hell was right between his knees, wrapped around his aching cock that had only gotten harder knowing they were both so close to being caught in this sin. Billy liked where he was currently sat. Fire burning low in his gut and getting warmer. Watching his poor fallen angel deprave himself. To keep the devil in them both happy.

He shuffled slight under the building pressure in his thighs, stroked through Harrington’s soft halo. Felt a sweet tongue roll against heated flesh in return.

“Forgive me father, for I have sinned.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr page.](https://bird-in-a-cage.tumblr.com/)


	4. IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve believed in the Devil. Only his Devil didn’t have black horns or ruby red skin, hoven feet or a pointed tail. His Devil had freckles dusted over his nose.

Steve was good. He had to tell himself that sometimes. He was good. He believed. He believed in God and Jesus, heaven and hell. He believed Moses parted the Red Sea. He believed in the Commandments. He believed the Lord died for us all, so we could be better. Be washed clean.

Steve believed in the Devil. Only his Devil didn’t have black horns or ruby red skin, hoven feet or a pointed tail. His Devil had freckles dusted over his nose. Had dirty blonde hair like a waterfall over rapids and rocks. Had eyes so blue that no artist would ever be able to paint them correctly, do justice to the depth and passion they held. The only thing they held in common was a forked tongue. Steve’s Devil was an expert in its use. Whispering heated lies into his ear, making them sound safe, that the ideas were Steve’s own somehow. Like he wanted everything that tongue could give, could say, could flick and roll and press.

Inside Steve knew it was wrong. Every dance they did was wrong. Every stolen moment, every quiet shuffle, every sideways glance when those eyes burnt bright with desire and malicious intent. Every time he tried so hard to resist. Remind himself that he was good, that he could be saved, that he didn’t need saving to begin with. But every time that tongue would sing words that deeper down Steve wanted to hear. The part of himself he knew was wrong and forbidden and tried to keep locked away. His Devil had the key. Would spring the latch with a click of his fingers and for a small moment Steve would feel free. Freer than a dove. Higher than the clouds. Close, so close, to touching the gates to know what that felt like. To be that close to heaven and still be planted on Earth. So he would dance.

But at nights he would spiral. Thoughts and memories dragging him down until he could feel fire licking the soles of his feet. Nancy was sweet, but she couldn’t save him. He loved her so dearly, but every day was a lie. Another sin he needed to atone for. Another string of beads to count. 

Steve would pray kneeling at the foot of his bed, hands clasped so tight together the pain would shoot up his forearms. He would shake with concentration. Lips begging for forgiveness, to be made right. Why was he made wrong? What was God’s plan for him to be made this way? He tried, he really did try, but there was only so much he could do without help. Only so much temptation he could avoid when it was surrounding him everyday and pulling him into sacred places to sin. The Devil would flash behind his eyelids and he would cry. Tears would roll heavy down his cheeks, trying to clean him somehow. But he was so confused. This wasn’t fair. He was good. He did everything he was supposed to do, everything his parents told him to do, everything the priest told him to do, everything Nancy told him to do.

He did everything the Devil told him to do.

In desperate times Steve would take his cross off, hold it tight, force it into his palm until it hurt, until it felt like it was about to break the skin. Maybe that would help to free him of his sins so he could feel good. Jesus bled.

Sometimes prayers just made him feel empty. They should fill him with joy and light, they did in the past. But now they didn’t taste the same. He’d tasted something sweeter, the most forbidden of fruits. Eve was cast out for her crimes, what would happen to him? If he confessed the whole truth. Nancy would go. His parents would be disgraced.

But the Devil would remain. Welcome him with open arms and an easy smile. With soft skin that smelt like a snuffed out candle. He’d be so close he’d be able to count each freckle. See his own reflection in the unholiest of waters. He’d be warm with fire crackling around them.

Was the Devil worth burning for?


	5. V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even though the chapel was always cold with the stone floor and endlessly high ceiling, Steve was sweating under his collar. Trying not to pay attention to the Devil on his left slowly bouncing his leg up and down, friction through two pairs of slacks.

Hargrove’s thigh was hot against Steve’s as they sat in the pews surrounded by their peers. Weekly mass. Candles flickered. Incense burned. It was too warm. Even though the chapel was always cold with the stone floor and endlessly high ceiling, Steve was sweating under his collar. Trying not to pay attention to the Devil on his left slowly bouncing his leg up and down, friction through two pairs of slacks. Steve had purposely sat near the back, to be alone and try to pay attention. Try and find the piece of him that felt missing lately. Hargrove had been late. Just slid into the empty seat and sat uncomfortably close.

Steve closed his eyes and rolled his head back. Blinding himself to everything but what was being said. To feel that light again. To have it come shining through the dark of his eyelids. To fill the hole bright and pure.

He’d always been told the Devil would be a temptation. Would try every trick imaginable to taint him. Turn him wicked. Get him banished and deaf to the word of God. He was trying to resist. Still trying to be good. Trying to feel whole again.

Trying to ignore a hand on his knee. Just resting there. Nothing more. But it was heavy. Fingers brushing around the shape of his kneecap like a whisper. Steve knew he could move. The rest of the pew was empty. He could shuffle along silently and end it. Carry on trying to concentrate on the teachings from the priest up front. He could resist.

Hargrove stopped moving his leg but it still stayed close, pressed firm, knew he had Steve's attention. Anyone could walk back at any moment and see them. Turn their heads and notice. Hargrove didn’t care about things like that. He didn’t want to be saved.

Slowly the spoken word just became a blur of noise, rumbling low under the thumping of Steve’s blood in his veins. Impossible to listen to. The word of God didn’t fill that hole inside anymore. But the Devil did. Hargrove did. Steve never felt so full before. Under those eyes he felt wanted and needed. He felt better than good. The world and its problems melted away, became nothing but ashes. 

Hargrove, _Billy_ , was beautiful and dangerous. Like statues depicting Lucifer. Classical paintings. _Daniel in the Lion’s Den. David with the Head of Goliath. Judith Beheading Holofernes. The Crucifixion of Saint Peter._ Steve felt beautiful to be looked upon by him. How he used to imagine being seen by God would feel. How he used to imagine just having his prayers heard would feel. Hargrove listened. He listened every time. Every quiet moan. Every stolen sigh. Every bitten off cry. Every swallowed groan. Hargrove knew them all. Steve knew his too. Had felt them all vibrate through his chest when they had been pressed together. Knew what his lips looked like forming them. How his tongue shaped to say _pretty boy_ and _amigo_. Had looked up every time Hargrove, _Billy_ , made himself comfortable bouncing on Steve's lap and saw nothing but golden light bright through damp curls. Pink lip caught between white teeth so not to be heard. Impossibly blue eyes rolled upwards. Naked from the waist down. _Assumption of the Virgin._

Steve opened his eyes to the ceiling. Nothing but grey stone. Cold. Hargrove was nothing but warmth next to him. He rolled his head down to face forward. Didn’t dare look anywhere else. Slowly moved his hand to cup Hargrove’s knee in return over his slacks. More than a barely there touch like so many before. This was intentional. Real. Matched Hargrove’s fingers, cupping around the bone that lay under layers of muscle. Filling the hole inside with something attainable. Something here. Something now. Something that wasn’t only a promise, or a wait and see, or a feeling. 

Something that made Steve feel good. So good it couldn't possibly be wrong.

He felt the Devil's, Hargrove's, _Billy's_ smirk burning against his cheek but didn't turn to see. Stayed looking straight ahead. Stayed looking at stained glass. The Crucifiction. Always looking back. The sacrifice. Always there. Unforgettable. Depicted in every colour imaginable.

If God could create so many colours, so many people, surely there was still room for Steve in some way? Maybe this wasn't the right way for him. Maybe there was something out there that was a better fit. The perfect shape for his hole. To complete his jigsaw.

Maybe, somehow, Billy held that answer. Indirect as could be.

His hand moved slow along the inner seam in Steve's slacks, pressing the thin line of material into his thigh with clear direction and intent. Maybe planning to leave a secret mark. No one turned. No one looked. Even in public, in something so holy, they were safe. Didn't burst into flames. Didn't feel damned for all of eternity. Everything remained the same. Resisting the urge to tremble, Steve followed. Fingers pressing along the inseam against Billy's thick thighs. A silent confession. An admittance. He breathed deep. He wasn't afraid anymore.

God was responsible for everything. We are all made in his image. Not everything is black and white.

They were both good.

_~FIN~_

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr page.](https://bird-in-a-cage.tumblr.com/)


End file.
